Sherlock and the Chocolate Factory
by ColouredLullabies
Summary: So I had a weird, crazy, possibly terribly idea- swirl together Sherlock and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Twelve year old Sherlock Holmes has been left stumped by Willy Wonka. How is is factory running, with no workers? Who IS Willy Wonka? When the golden oppurtunity arrives, how will Sherlock react to having his first friend and meeting the eccentric Willy Wonka?
1. Chapter 1: Prologue

Sherlock Holmes knew people thought him to be curious, to put it politely. He was a handsome boy of 12 years with fair skin, striking blue eyes, and dark, curled hair. He was tall for his age, intelligent as well as athletic. Yet people saw him as a pessimistic child, cool and analytical with a rare show of emotion. But Sherlock Holmes had a secret: he, who laughed at the preposterous use of one's imagination, was infatuated with the mystery of Mr. Willy Wonka.

Mr. Wonka was the owner of the world's largest and most cherished candy factory, right in the middle of London. His candy was delightful, and competitors were constantly trying to sneak into the factory to steal his inventions and innovations, so Wonka decided to put the factory into a hiatus. All the workers were fired, the last of the candy was sold, and finally, the gates to the factory shut. Mr. Wonka has not been seen by anyone since.

One day, the factory had delivery trucks spewing out of the gates, all of the candy that had been treasured by the populace began to be made again. Yet no one- besides the deliverymen- had been rehired. So who was making the candy? According to the research Sherlock had done, machines could not have been doing it all. The time between the day the factory shut its gates and the day the delivery trucks were spotted was not enough time for one man to, by himself, design and build all of the machines necessary to make and package all of Wonka's products. So how was the candy being made? How did Wonka accomplish this? These were questions Sherlock Holmes, no matter how much thinking he did upon them, could not answer.

And it seriously pissed him off.

"All I need is one look at Wonka," Sherlock thought. "One look, and I can figure out all I need to know."

But no one has seen Wonka in years. There are no photographs of him after the hiatus, because no one has seen him since. No one knows if the man is still even alive, for certain. Sherlock Holmes, who could solve any puzzle, who could tell you who you were with one look at you, who could baffle any adult with his wit, was vexed. There was no way Sherlock Holmes would stay out of this forever. He was itching to do some investigating. He just couldn't figure out how, being a twelve year old boy with no reason apparent reason. Adults could not get into the factory, let alone an arrogant, self-absorbed child.

Sherlock resigned to wait- the right opportunity would come by soon enough to let him to unravel the mystery of Willy Wonka.


	2. Chapter 2: Meeting John Watson

Sherlock Holmes was walking into school on the third Tuesday of January when he immediately observed that there had been exiting news. Sherlock sighed, and took off his blue scarf. He was slightly annoyed by the idiocy of the children around him, but curious at the same time. Then the smell hit him: chocolate. The smell of the sweet was everywhere. Exciting news, chocolate- Valentine's Day? No, it was still January, and children wouldn't get that exited for an adult's corporate holiday. News, chocolate, children. Sherlock looked around him and saw all of the wrappers scattered everywhere- all of which belonged to a Wonka bar. Not one wrapper was from another candy. News, chocolate, children, Wonka bars… prize. If you got the right Wonka bar, you won a prize. But what prize was so exiting as to make almost every child in the room have Wonka bars? What was something every child want that the Wonka company could provide? Free candy for life?

Sherlock became frustrated and sprang out of his seat. Two minutes until school started. He turned and tapped the boy next to him on the shoulder.

"Yeah?" the boy said. A pleasant face, some would claim the boy was cute. Short in stature, and thin. He had fine blond hair and sea colored eyes. Those eyes looked up at Sherlock, filled with curiosity.

"Tell me what the commotion is about the Wonka bars."

The boy looked confused. "You don't know?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't be asking." Sherlock said, feeling as if this talk was tedious.

"That is a good point," the boy said. This surprised Sherlock, as no one ever took his words and thought about them, they usually were irritated and thought he was talking back to them. Sherlock felt sudden warmth in his cheeks and in his chest because of an odd happiness for the appreciation of his words.

"I'll tell you," the boy continued, completely unaware of Sherlock's battle with basic human emotion. "Mr. Wonka said on the telly last night that he put five golden tickets into five of his chocolate bars. If you found one of the golden tickets, you get to take a tour of his factory."

Sherlock felt the corners of his lips curl upward, feeling success. "Thank you."

"No problem," the boy said.

The boy turned around, and Sherlock felt brilliant. He knew that with the golden tickets, he could use his brain to get into the factory, if not to figure out how it is still running without going in and observing the place himself.


	3. Chapter 3: A Fortuitous Intervention

Sherlock had a plan. Three of the golden tickets had been found which heightened the success probability of his calculations beautifully. The first ticket was found by an obscene boy named Augustus Gloop. Ten years of age, and German. With an intense penchant for food, especially sweets, it was no wonder the boy had found the ticket first. The second was found by an eight year old American girl named Veruca Salt. A seemingly pleasant child to most, but to Sherlock, Veruca Salt was a selfish, spoiled rich brat. She ordered her father to hire people to open thousands of Wonka bars until one of them found the ticket. The third was found by a French girl named Violet Beauregarde, a girl of a loud sort who had an obsession with chewing gum, and a slightly unhealthy amount of competitive spirit. She had found the ticket buy pushing all of the other children out of the way to get to the Wonka bar shelf and grabbing the one she deemed the best. Next was an Australian boy of eight years who had found the ticket while buying a Wonka bar to snack on while he played his brand new copy of Dead Island 2*.

Sherlock had been patient. He had had to wait until four of the five tickets had been found for his plan to have a high rate of success. Sherlock spent hours analyzing the Nikkei Index** and the date-codes of the other ticket finds, offset those estimations by the weather that day, and thus calculated the location of the next ticket. His plan required the purchasing of only one Wonka bar. So on the first Monday in February, Sherlock Holmes set out to buy Himself his first Wonka bar.

Sherlock Holmes never had much of a sweet tooth; that trait had been inherited by his brother, Mycroft. Sure, he's had chocolate and Wonka bars before, he had just never had a reason to waste his resources on one for himself. So the gravity of walking down the street to the candy shop to buy one with a golden ticket in it was so large, Sherlock felt giddy, almost overwhelmed with achievement.

*For those who don't know, Dead Island is a zombie-apocalypse-survival game made for Xbox 360.

**The Nikkei Index is (very basically) an index showing the average closing prices of 225 stocks on the Tokyo Stock Exchange.

Sherlock strode into the candy shop and strode over to the Wonka bar section, and stood in front of the children already there, trying to make their decision. He peered at the almost-empty boxes of Wonka bars and began to feel a touch of apprehension. Where was the bar? Sherlock scanned the shelves again, and a hand reached from behind him to grab one of the bars.

"Pardon," a boy's voice said, and the hand disappeared. Sherlock locked eyes on the bar and felt a surge of panic. The one in the boy's hand was the one he needed.

"Wait!" he shouted, and grabbed the shoulder of the boy who took the bar. Ever so fortuitously, it was the boy who had told him about the golden tickets.

"Yeah?" the boy said.

"Can I have that one?"

"Why?" the boy asked. "It's not like this one will have the golden ticket."

"Yes, it does." Sherlock said, completely serious.

The boy looks at Sherlock long and hard, before he finally spoke again. "What's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm John Watson. I'll let you buy this one. Only if you agree to take me as your plus one on the tour." John stuck out his hand. "Deal?"

Sherlock was slightly annoyed, and also slightly baffled by this boy, but knew agreeing was the only way to get the ticket. So Sherlock shook hands with the boy, and analyzed him. Sherlock deduced his level of trust for the boy before letting go of his hand.

"The bar," Sherlock said, holding out his hand. "I need the bar if I'm going to pay for it."

"Oh," John said, and his cheeks flushed, "Sorry."

Sherlock sauntered up to the counter, handed over the money and then hurried out the door, the boy called John Watson never far behind. Sherlock paused outside the shop, and turned to face John. Quickly, he ripped the foil around the chocolate, peeling it. The sight that lay before him shocked him. How could he have been wrong? He calculated multiple times to come to the correct conclusion that this was the right bar. Sherlock felt frustration ignite his tearducts, but willed the tears not to spill. He was twelve, and he would not cry…

"Oh my God." John whispered. "Oh my God…" Sherlock agreed with him. How could he have failed so terribly? This was very awkward , John was going to ruin Sherlock's cool, clean reputation. A fake reputation is all this little boy has, he can't-

"The golden ticket. We found the golden ticket!" John whispered.

_What?_

Sherlock flipped the candy bar over to see that the golden ticket had been packaged onto the other side of the bar. Sherlock felt extreme humiliation over his childlike stupidity and behaviour, but that was soon overtaken by the sudden joy and feeling of success that overwhelmed him. Now he could finally unravel the mystery of Willy Wonka and his Chocolate factory! He had found the Golden Ticket!

Sherlock smiled. "I told you, didn't I? That this one was the golden ticket."

"Yeah, but it was mad to believe you! How did you know?"

Sherlock began by explaining his calculations of how many bars were being distributed, and how many to each country. Then he began to explain the application and analysis of the Nikkei Index before noticing the vacant look on John's face. He paused before simply summarizing: "I used math to figure it out."

"Brilliant." John said, a brilliant smile on his face. "Just… brilliant."

Sherlock felt his eyebrows raise, the emotion one feels after being praised is quite nice. Sherlock knew it was just his brain producing more dopamine, but the feeling was incredible.

Sherlock slid the golden ticket out from betwixt the wrapper and the chocolate to analyze it and figure out what to do with it next. Sherlock noticed a man that had been standing, talking on a cell phone across the street had hung up and began approaching them. Sherlock folded the ticket and slipped it into his pocket.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" John asked. Before Sherlock could answer, the man's hand clamped down on John's shoulder.

"Hello, boys," He said, smiling jovially. "I see you got yourselves one of the scarcer Wonka bars, yeah?"

"We aren't going to sell it to you." John said. Sherlock's cool gaze remained unwavering on the man.

The man chuckled. "I wasn't going to ask you to sell it to me." His eyes shifted to the left, then right. "I have a little proposition for you boys."

Sherlock blinked. "I know who you are, Arthur Slugworth, and I do not accept your proposition." Sherlock Holmes turned, adjusted his scarf around his neck, and began walking. John followed silently.

The man, Slugworth, looked surprised and disappointed. "Why, I haven't even told you what I was thinking yet."

"You needn't." Sherlock said, without turning around. "I won't steal it for you, and neither will he."

Arthur Slugworth furrowed his brows, agitated. He knew what Wonka had planned, and he knew that his own plan was now a failure, after meeting those two boys. He also thought about the boy with the dark hair and the blue scarf, curiously, and wondered what sort of boy even knew what the Nikkei Index was.


	4. Chapter 4: The Meeting of Mycroft Holmes

"Sherlock!" John called out to the older boy, who was walking briskly in front of him. "Slow down I've got short legs!"

Sherlock slowed his pace, but did not wait for John to catch up.

"What did he want? Arthur Slugworm?" John inquired.

"Slugworth," Sherlock interjected. "He wanted to know if we would steal a candy prototype out of the Wonka factory, so I told him no."

"Huh," John breathed, slightly out of breath due to jogging to keep up with Sherlock.

Sherlock took the ticket out of his pocket and examined it. "Anyway, the ticket reads, 'Greetings to you, the lucky finder of this golden ticket. Present this ticket at the factory gate on March first at ten in the morning. Do not be late. You may bring a plus one.' Looks like you get to come, John."

"Briliiant," John said, evidently happy, if slightly breathless from jogging to keep up with his companion.

"Well, I'll be in front of your flat at nine in the morning." Sherlock spun to face John, winked, completed a full turn, and dashed off.

John Watson had a peculiar feeling about Sherlock Holmes that day. His head said that it was a bad idea to befriend Sherlock Holmes, but his heart had already gained a fondness for the curious boy.

* * *

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, "I thought you'd have it sooner."

"Don't be ridiculous, you know this was the only way to get the ticket with only purchasing one bar of chocolate."

Mycroft raised his brows, then folded the Sunday paper in his hands and set it down on the coffee table. "Who is this John Watson character?"

Sherlock shrugged off his coat and his favorite blue scarf and placed them on the back of a chair. "No one worth chatting about. Are you done with your inquiry? I'd really like to do something important now." He spoke fluidly, the words polite but the tone held a cold distance between the two. Mycroft sighed and sat back in the worn leather armchair he was sitting in and smiled coolly. His face was the perfect image of control.

"Come, Sherlock, you know how the fighting upsets Mummy."

"I'm not the one who upset her, Mycroft!" As soon as the words left his mouth, Sherlock knew what a lie they were. Mycroft was perfect: a calm, collected older brother that every mother dreams about. Mycroft had perfect grades, perfect social status, perfect manners. Why was he so goddamn perfect? Sherlock, on the other hand, was erratic and eccentric: the kind of child every mother dreads. He was erratic and eccentric. While he was smart, his grades were decent, if not dismal. He had no 'friends' to worry about making happy, and he did as he pleased. So why was he so unsatisfied?

Experiencing this emotion confused Sherlock so that he swept his gaze across the room for inspiration to bring forth witty satire, but none came. Agitated, Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

Once he was in the solitude of his bedroom, he began to relax. Yet his throat remained tight and he felt ill. Sherlock began cataloging his symptoms before coming to the conclusion that even though he was best solitary, he desired things like affection. He knew that every human was programmed with this desire. It was something he did not understand very well. Love initially brought a feeling of warmth that was irreplaceable by any other emotion, yet it was always came to a conclusion of pain and sorrow. Why would the brain desire something that has such dreaded consequences? Was the initial release of chemicals one experienced from love desperately needed? Or was the experience of those chemical reactions so pleasurable that it turns one into an emotional masochist? Sherlock wanted to know, but did not want to be the manipulated variable in this experiment. It wasn't professional to become a test subject in your own experiment, it could create an error within the results. But the dull ache in his throat told Sherlock otherwise.

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and plopped down on his bed, grabbing the current issue of _Science News_.

* * *

Mycroft gazed after his troublesome brother. This John Watson must have had quite an impact on Sherlock for him to lose, and admit to losing, such a quarrel. Mycroft slipped his phone out of his pocket and dialed a number.

"Hello. Could you do me a favor? Tell me all you know about John Watson…"

* * *

Sherlock Holmes, who was seated beside John Watson at school, had not spoken to John since the encounter at the candy store. It frustrated John to no end, but John refused to speak to him first.

The Watson boy was ruminating over these things on his way home, when a finger tapped him on the shoulder. Reflexively, he turned to see a boy slightly older than himself peering down at him, a folded piece of paper in his hand. John, confused, took the paper and the boy ran off.

John looked around himself, then down at the paper. Slowly, he unfolded it, smoothing the creases with his fingers. In a fluid script were the words, "Turn left." John did as the paper instructed, and saw a silhouette disappear behind the building John was currently standing beside. John glanced at it briefly. _The Cherry Blossom Motel_. The windows were boarded up and the sign looked ready to crumble. John looked back down the alley, and made an instinctive decision. He jogged down the alley. There was a back door to this motel, and it was opened slightly. Intrigued, John peered inside. The room was empty. Besides a few cardboard boxes and the boy in a black, floor-length coat in the corner.

"Ah," John said. "Hello?"

The boy stepped closer to John. "John Watson," he said. His voice was pleasant and polite. John studied the boy. Tall, but of average width, yet with a little muscle to him. A decent face and odd colored hair, combed back. John did not know this boy, had never seen him before. _So how did he know John's name?_

"I'm sorry," John said defensively. "Do I know you?"

"No," the boy said. "But I know you. And I am here to talk about Sherlock Holmes."

John strode forward, to study this strange boy more clearly. "Well, if you just wanted a chat, you could have just phoned me. On my phone."

The boy smiled, but there was very little humor behind it. "When dealing with Sherlock Holmes, on learns to be discreet."

"Oh," John said. "Wait. Who are you? A friend of his?"

A snicker. "You've met him. Exactly how many friends do you think he has?" The boy paused. "He'd say an enemy, or rather, his arch enemy." Although the words could have been interpreted as a joke, the icy undertone of the boy's voice told John he was not joking. John felt rather uncomfortable thinking about what Sherlock Holmes could have possibly done to piss off this boy. He felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

"To the issue at hand, I was wondering if you's conduct an observation of him for me. I assure you it will be worth your time."

"Why?"

"I worry about him." The boy's brows knitted together in a concerned expression. "Constantly."

"No," John said, having been able to process the boy's request and think about them ethically.

"Why, I haven't mentioned a figure," the boy said, unperturbed. He reached into his pocket and drew out a wad of banknotes. It had to be at least one hundred pounds. John's eyes widened at the sight. "I know your family needs it. Think about Harry."

John was now thoroughly freaked out by this strange boy, but refused to show it.

"No," he said.

"Why not?"

John looked at the money, then reasserted his gaze on the boy's eyes. "I'm just not interested." John then turned on his heel and began to walk out the door.

"Be warned, John Watson. When you walk these streets with Sherlock Holes, you can never see these streets as simple avenues no longer."

John kept walking.

* * *

Sherlock set down his book of Freudian theories on his desk when John Watson walked into the classroom and stood in front of Sherlock's desk. Sherlock refused to look up. John waited a moment before speaking, realizing Sherlock while not looking, was listening to him.

"I met a friend of yours yesterday."

Sherlock's head snapped up. "A friend?"

"An enemy," John amended. Sherlock's attention refocused on the book.

"Oh," he said, a light air to his voice. "Which one?"

"Your arch enemy, according to him." John stopped to think. "Do you really have an arch enemy?"

"Yes, why? What do people usually have, if not enemies?" Sherlock asked John, like multiple enemies were typical.

John was surprised, but only slightly. It seemed to be a common theme with Sherlock Holmes, being surprised. "Friends. People they like, people they don't like. Girlfriends, boyfriends…"

Sherlock looked up and _stared_. John's face flushed, his cheeks flaming as it dawned on him how awkward the situation had become. "They're all fine to have…"

Sherlock kept staring, and silence was loud during the moment before he spoke again. "I know it's fine." His gaze went back down to the book.

"Oh," John said, a war waging inside him between propriety and curiosity. Curiosity won. "So, do you have a, uh…"

Sherlock sighed and closed the book. "John, I consider myself dedicated to my studies and have no interest in personal relationships as such-"

"NO. No! I mean, I'm not…" John stuttered.

"Oh, okay." Sherlock said. The bell rang suddenly, and class began. With one last look at Sherlock Holmes, Watson sat down on his desk and wished that his curiosity hadn't gotten the better of him.

Sherlock studied John Watson in his peripheral vision, and found the boy very interesting. If nothing more, he'd be an interesting sample of the common-people to study. Sherlock smiled at the potential of John Watson and tried not to think of his excitement of the upcoming events.


End file.
